What He Did
by Ardoris
Summary: Keith ponders why he ever spoke to Natalie in the first place.


As he looked up into the stars, he let his thoughts drift away. Somehow, when he shifted his perspective from his earthly world to the heavens, everything just seemed so much… smaller. His problems, his hopes, his dreams… they must simply be insignificant compared to all of… _that._

When he looked up, he saw hundreds of bright, twinkling little stars. He saw the shining light of a moon missing a small sliver from one side, just slightly less than full. He saw the beautiful darkness of the space in between, in its infinite blackness. In those moments, he _saw_.

He let go of himself, bit by insignificant bit. His problems—what problems? His hopes—what hopes? His dreams—what dreams? His thoughts—what thoughts? His—what _him_?

There was absolute silence. It was deafening. It built up and built up and built up to a pounding crescendo of—

And then, there was a soft snuffle, and the sound of someone shifting slightly in their sleep.

And he was abruptly back to himself. She lay there beside him, under a soft and worn blanket, in the back of his old yellow truck, asleep. He remembered her, first. _Natalie. _Of course, it had always been her first. Even since before the sixth grade play, when he was Russian Soldier Number Three and she was the beautiful princess. He remembered not his first day of kindergarten, but the first time he'd ever seen her. He remembered not the first time he'd ever had a birthday party, but the first time he'd ever seen her outside of school. He remembered not his first crush—he remembered _her._

And with the memories of _her_ came all the rest of _him. _His thoughts returned full-force. His dreams. His hopes. His problems. And wasn't that the crux of the issue, really?

It had always been _her_. Every dream for the future involved him spending time with her. Every hope he had, he had because either he hoped for her or he hoped because of her. And his problem—the Big One—it hadn't been a _problem_ until he'd thought of her.

Because everyone who had ever and would ever live would get a chance at life. He'd thought a lot about it—probably more than he should have, and definitely more than he wanted to. But the thoughts came of their own accord. He had it all figured out. Life hasn't and isn't and won't ever be about how long people can make it. It's about what they do with it.

That's why he'd done it.

That's why he, knowing full well that his time was drawing to a close, had opened himself up to the greatest hurt imaginable. He'd had an okay life up until that point—maybe a few more downs than strictly necessary, but more than enough ups for it to have been worthwhile. But when he'd found out about his _problem—_the Big One—he'd been more upset than at any other time in his life.

Not because he'd practically been given an expiration date. Not because the doctors basically told him he had maybe a year or two left to live. Not because he'd be dead before he ever got to go to college. No, it wasn't about the time.

It wasn't even about all of the things he'd never get to do. Ultimately, deep down, it was about only one thing: that he hadn't really done _anything_.

When the doctors told him, that's when he started thinking. He hadn't been sad that he was going to die, not at first. Everyone bites the dust eventually. He'd just been in the AP class. Ahead of the game. What he'd realized though, was that it wasn't just him that wouldn't be sad. None of his friends would be sad—he didn't have any real friends. None of his family would be sad—his mother was long dead and his father only cared about him because he was all the man had left of his wife. And he wouldn't be sad, either. He'd be dead. Hell, not even _she_ would be sad. _She _didn't really know he existed. She'd never really noticed the little people.

But that meant something. Something big. That meant that he'd never done anything. He wouldn't be missed, because he'd never done anything that would be missed. He'd never built anything that would be missed. He'd never been anything or anyone to be missed.

That's why he'd done it.

He'd looked around for a long time, unsure of what he should do. What could he do that would be left behind after he died? What could he do to be missed?

He hadn't seen the answer for months. Only after visiting the doctors again, when they verified that the treatments hadn't worked and that he'd likely be gone before he even graduated high school, had he begun to see what he had to do.

And when Al had asked him for a concrete goal, he finally had one.

_Her._

It had always been about _her, _really. And as he saw himself coming to a close, he saw her coming to a close as well. No, she wasn't dying. Not physically. But he saw her dying inside. Every day she lived for someone else was another day she wasn't living for herself. And if she wasn't living for herself, was she really living at all?

He paid attention, of course he did. He knew more about her than she did about herself, probably. And that was before they'd ever spoken two words to each other.

She was one of the best tennis players in the country. But she hated the sport.

She was the Debate Queen. But she hated arguing about all that meaningless crap.

She was first in her class. But she hated studying—she wanted to read for fun.

She was going to Duke. But she hated large universities.

She was living a dream. But it wasn't hers.

She wasn't living.

And neither was he.

But she could.

And so could he.

That's why he'd done it.


End file.
